


First impression

by Pegship



Series: Castle Episodic [1]
Category: Castle
Genre: First Impressions, Gen, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness, s01e01 Flowers for Your Grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1237489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegship/pseuds/Pegship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What goes on in Castle's thoughts during his first case with Detective Kate Beckett. Some naughty, some nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First impression

**Author's Note:**

> On the audio commentary for "Flowers for Your Grave", one of the producers says of the interrogation scene: "She thinks this is an interrogation; he thinks it's a first date." Kind of sets the tone for the first season, I think.

I can tell right away that she's not going to be a pushover. Fortunately, I like a challenge, and she's hot, so I get to drink in the sight of her while she drones on about my trivial rap sheet. I have no idea why I'm here, but since I wasn't cuffed or read my rights, it can't be that bad.

She _seems_ impervious to my usual charms (those I can demonstrate in this setting, anyway), but I heard that little pause before she said the word "nude". I hope there are photos in the file for that incident, so she can get an eyeful of my _unusual_ charms. I also saw the crucial twitch of her eyelashes when I told her she has gorgeous eyes.

I bet she *would* spank me. She does seem to have amazing control over her emotions - witness her reaction to my observation that she's a fan - and I bet when she loses it, she can really lay into a guy. With her bare hand, probably. Maybe even on my bare - 

Oho, a copycat! My first one! Okay, it's sad that these people are dead, and creepy that whoever killed them reads my books. Actually, it's even creepier that whoever reads my books killed them, if you think about it. But wait a minute - Detective Hottie has read them also! She doesn't seem very pleased to admit it, though; what's up with that?

There's got to be more to this case than what she's showing me. If I were writing it, there'd have to be a reason for the killer to choose my works, beyond dressing up the crime scene. In which he or she has made a few errors; I can tell from the photos. 

Before I can point them out, Ms. Beckett has collected her toys and put them away, but in my head I'm already working out ways to glean more information. About the case, about police procedure in general. Research, of course. And of course, anything I learn about Detective Kate Beckett along the way - well, that'll just be - let's call it incentive.

She turns to go and I'm momentarily speechless at the sight of her in motion - okay, her _derrière_ in motion - so she's gone before I can thank her for a truly enjoyable interview. I bet she doesn't hear that every day, or night, as it were. I'm sure she likes to hear something new on occasion, just as I do.

It's a start.

* * *

This is new. Never in my vast experience with women has one grabbed me by the nose, Stooges-style. I dangle a bit of theory in front of her and bam, said the lady, Beckett has my proboscis between her small but remarkably powerful talons. She looks prepared to abuse my face all afternoon (not in a fun way) and I wonder if she does this to suspects on a regular basis.

(Later in life I conclude that it's just me she does it to. I don't know whether to be flattered, insulted, or turned on. Maybe all three.)

Of course, I cave immediately and blurt out my deductions. She actually listens to me, doesn't dismiss my theory out of hand. Doesn't apologize for the nose thing, and that actually makes me like her a little bit more. If I were writing a woman detective, she'd be cool, driven, and yet passionate about bringing criminals to justice, just like Beckett.

She'd be beautiful and deadly as well. Just like Beckett. Hmmm.

* * *

I've come up against the original intended use of handcuffs, not the sexy kind, but the kind that keeps me from following Beckett and her crew into what will surely be a routine arrest. She doesn't want me to interfere - I just want to watch. And while I'm juggling with the damn key, there goes the suspect, down the fire escape, no backup in sight.

He spots me getting loose and coming after him, and when he doesn't try to shoot me I know he's not going to. When he gets the drop on me, before Beckett gets to us, I can see the safety's still on the gun. He's a head shorter than me but strong, desperate, cornered. I bet I can get him to talk.

He's losing whatever control he had, panicking, giving up his confession like he can't keep it in. Now that it's out he's going to be even more desperate to get away - he's looking around frantically for an escape route - Beckett looks about to pull the trigger on him (please, Beckett, shoot him in the arm or something, I don't want his blood all over my face) - 

Aha! The second he points the gun at Beckett I give him the old elbow to the face and grab the gun as he goes down. I've saved the day, subdued the suspect, he's out for the count - and Beckett, far from being impressed, gives me a shove and yells at me. 

I'm not even kidding when I suggest that I could be one of her conquests. She could get me to roll over and beg, so fast, so easily, like no one has before - and she's completely, totally, _pointedly_ not interested.

This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


End file.
